Why? Well, because . . .
It promotes ownership. You learn that it’s on you, all of it. The good shots, the bad. And if there’s one thing that our world is losing, it is the refusal to take ownership.
When you need a sanctuary away from the chaos, the commotion, and the anger that blankets our world, you have it – across a multiple number of acres, no less.
It has a deep soul that helps enrich yours. At its heart there is an endearing spirit, one that is infectious and near impossible to resist.
There is forever an invitation to be adventurous, to travel, to meet new friends, and constantly renew old acquaintances.
Ferry rides can be part of the aura. From New London, Conn., to Orient Point on Long Island. From Belfast, Northern Ireland, to Cairnryan, Scotland. From Woods Hole to Martha’s Vineyard. From Hyannis to Nantucket. From Hilton Head Island to Daufuskie.
It is the magic of Dornoch, the reverence of St. Andrews, the majesty of Monterey Peninsula, the ruggedness of Bandon Dunes. All of it being parallel to the joy of your local muni that kindles immeasurable pleasure.
It is steeped in history, which you are asked to respect, and an etiquette, to which you are entrusted.
You can be enveloped in the rawness of an April day in New England or the sultry heat of Pinehurst in July.
Because it provides you expansive views of oceans, great lakes, and sprawling rivers; of whales breaching and alligators sun-bathing. But so, too, can you be regaled by majestic mountain ranges, rolling sandhills, and regal parkland.
And there is the clash of colors that mesmerizes: Long, wispy brown grass framing vibrant green grass beneath an endless stretch of blue sky.
It is links, the most glorious and awe-inspiring landscape of them all.
There is the priceless serenity at the break of day with your shoes covered in dew, the solemness of twilight where the thrill of today gives way to the promise of tomorrow, and the dedication to stand in a blazing mid-day sun because . . well, because the sweat makes you feel alive.
There are the opportunities to play with college friends who agreed with you more than 40 years ago that 18 holes would be a better investment than a day of macroeconomics and early modern philosophy, and there are chances to cherish those high school friends with their new knees, replacement hips, and homemade swings.
Most beautiful of all is that time for which you are most beholden, when a hero of yours named Carl Klump proves that chips, pitches, and putts can be gracefully and lovingly executed after a 90th birthday.
An 86 can bring immense happiness to some while a 74 can cause ripples of despair within others.
There is the image that 20 years later still warms the heart – of a trio of lads leaving the tee box at No. 1 at Lundin Links just outside of St. Andrews. The scorecard with too many 6s sits on the table, so, too, does a pint of Guinness, and laughter offers testimony to a day well spent. But it is 8 p.m. and your eyes focus only on the trio of pushing off in pursuit of pure happiness.
It is the unexpected joy to that first flushed 7-iron, even if it was struck 50 years ago, and it is the voice of Jeff Julian explaining that playing in moonlight teaches you to feel the ball making contact so that you know in which direction it will fly.
It is the memory of an amateur of iconic stature, E. Harvie Ward, standing in the very back of Savannah Rapids Pavillion on an early April night in 2003, listening to Julian – a courageous figure fighting ALS – try to muster enough strength to thank a GWAA audience for an award. Flashing a smile but choking back tears, Ward gave a warm hug to Julian near the exit, then got into a stance to remind his student how he had to shift that weight. Tears, laughter, and unforgettable dignity.
There are those countless days when in the same group a grandfather can be out with his son and grandson. And the memory still inspires of a woman named Grannie Annie Monahan who taught her son and grandsons how to play, yes, but more importantly how to love the game.
It’s crazy, but you can take three putts from 20 feet, then three holes later pitch in from 15 yards. You can stand over a shot from 175 yards with supreme confidence, then shake uncontrollably while lining up a 4-foot putt to win.
The walk is always a joy, even more so when alongside a caddie.
There is the joy of a youngster swinging a cut-down club and the artistry of that maestro in rhythm with a hickory.
It is the cobblestones of Scotland, the miles of green valleys in Ireland, the countryside of England, and the wonder that overcomes when you realize the splendor and charm stretches to the other side of globe, down in Australia and New Zealand.
That remarkable feeling you get when you know you are alone on the course, but in total harmony with your surroundings.
There is that uncanny sound of a true flusher putting the center of his clubface on golf ball swing after swing after swing. And the unmistakable groan of a caddie being told to get three more bags by a player in a relentless search.
It is the power of a massive drive, the precision of a crisp wedge, the deft roll from 3 feet – all of them being of different motions but equal value. One.
The caddie. Cannot forget the caddie, he or she having such treasured roles in the game's history. Always, a walk is enhanced when accompanied by a caddie.
In a world of drive-thru windows and curb-side pickups, it is patience and diligence, a rewarding commitment, and a constant reminder to stay true to who you are and not get caught up in all the noise.
There was the truth delivered to you when the game first entered your life decades ago and that truth remains as rabid as ever. It confounds, it mystifies, it challenges, it grips, it entices, it lures. But it never fails you. Not ever.
They are answers, all of them, offered to that question you ask: Why is it you love golf?
